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Precision, to some is merely a word for accuracy or exactness. For you, it is life and death. Well, not necessarily your life, but that is merely semantics. Before the Fluffies came about you wasted your life trying to find a purpose that resonated with you. Finding that purpose in a vast world is difficult to say the least. Looking back to all those wasted years you almost cry, but waste is something you do not tolerate. Some people fill their days with reading, others with video games or some other manner of frivolity, but not you. The answer to your life’s question was right in front of you, and by God you were going to be the best at it. You called it the refinement process, but what were you refining exactly? That word implies there is a good or service you are working with. But what you were doing was more than that. A primal purpose that was older than humanity itself, the art of suffering!
A tired, hacking cough brings you back to the present as you refocus upon your surroundings. In front of you is a clear work bench, brightly lit from above and to the sides for optimal illumination, and what you are viewing, is a fluffy. The distinction is important, for if you did not already know what the poor lump of meat in front of you was, then no reasonable person would ever think the faceless, stumpy, oozing abomination was once a brightly colored ball of happiness. You lift a hand and prod at the creature delicately, causing a cacophony of pain to erupt from its now gaping maw.
“SCREEEEeeeee,”
The pain filled cry quickly died down, to your slight frustration. The bloodshot and slightly dehydrated eyes look at you with clear desperation, but you ignore them with cold disregard. You mark the time, 5.52 seconds. Quite impressive considering the lengths you have taken to desecrate this creature’s body and soul. But you are not satisfied yet. You grab a clear spray bottle off the tray behind you clearly marked with a hazard symbol for corrosive liquids. Deftly removing the top of the bottle, you grab a syringe and a needle of your own making. Not the largest needle but that wasn’t the point. The needle was engineered to go in and out causing as much pain as possible, with serrated edges that allowed for the liquid being injected to run along the edges and distribute evenly when entering the flesh of its unfortunate victim. You fill the syringe approximately a quarter of the way full before replacing the bottle to its proper place, sealing it behind a fume hood and double checking the lid to ensure any vapors would not escape. The chemical was more than dangerous enough to warrant such procedure, as it was a combination of a steroid, acid, and sensation enhancing drug to maximize any pain felt. The amount you had within the syringe was enough to kill easily a hundred fluffies, but as long as you allowed it to run its course within the subject in front of you and not spill a drop, it would not be dangerous to anyone else. Your turn your head slightly and speak.
“Note: Subject 12 has diminishing returns to external stimuli. Maximum cry extended by .83 seconds from previous case. Moving on to subject 13 after final disposal.” You say quickly into the microphone to your right while looking into the camera some ways behind. You would splice the audio and video together later, but for now you had a test subject to deal with.
“I suppose you think your ordeal is over now?” You say to the red mass pinned to the table.
“Hheergh” The fluffy opened its mouth to respond, no doubt with some variation of ‘wan die’ or ‘why munstah gib hurties?’ but cutting out the tongues became routine after you discovered that the only response you really needed to hear from these creatures was agony or silence. After all, they don’t need to speak to convey their suffering now do they?
“Well you are half right you bad, bad fluffy” you say with quiet disdain. “This,” you said while gesturing to the syringe “is going to kill you. Slowly.” And with those fond words of farewell you pricked the fluffy in its fat belly, emptying its contents barely below its dermis. At first there was no reaction, but the fluffy quickly produced the most unearthly sound it could manage without a tongue. A faint bubbling could be seen under its fat belly, you could only imagine the damage being wrought within the child’s toy. But still it was not enough. You were confident that at least saved the best for last, as in, the fluffy was experiencing the most horrific pain it had ever felt at this moment, and that was saying something with all that it had been through. Perhaps it was a bit inefficient to watch every time you performed your own version of last rites on the fluffy, after all, you were seeking perfection here. But you allowed yourself this one guilty pleasure of being present for their last moments, their innards slowly bubbling away beneath swollen bellies. Blood rushed from the naked fluffy’s mouth, as forceful gasps of air only served to fill disintegrating lungs with enough air to continue the horrid screaming. Your only reaction, a small tilt to your lips to show your satisfaction. After about five and a half minutes the creature fell silent, lungs now completely gone, but that did not mean the fluffy was dead. No, you guessed he had about twenty-five or so seconds left of precious life within him as the deadly liquid worked its way to his heart to finally pump itself into his brain where he would finally die in complete mind numbing torment. When some spoke of the worst way a fluffy could die, none felt more confident than you when you said it. Indeed, with all your research you extended this particular subject’s death out for more than a week. It had taken hundreds of man hours, and easily twice the number of fluffies to find what worked and what didn’t for extending your particular brand of sadism. But your tender mercies were a labor of love.
After 22.93 seconds exactly, the fluffy was finally dead. You estimated exact cause of death to be a mixture of lack of oxygen to the brain combined with a lack of said brain. It had taken at least a hundred fluffies to work out how to do that. Keeping them alive for the chemical to do its work for as long as possible. Or how best to recombine the different compounds for maximum effect. But you didn’t mind the work, no in fact you lived for it.
A quick walk had you moving to the containment pens where fresh… subjects would be first introduced to you for refinement. An intermediary supplied you with all of the fluffies you would ever need. A wealthy benefactor whose only stipulation was to be kept in the loop for any discoveries or advancements you made in the subtle art of tormenting fluffies. The constant praise in your work made you confident they were not disappointed so far. What could you say, you were a pleaser. As you walked through the door you were immediately assailed with visions of bright colors and happy, chirping fluffies. Absolutely disgusting, but necessary, for only a being that had at one time known happiness could then know the greatest of suffering.
“Hewwo mummeh! Fwuffy so happy see yoo!” a bright orange fluffy mare waddled right up to you after you walked through the fluffy-proof gate – an approximately 3 foot high barrier painted brown to discourage touching – and sat on its ass, doing its best to impress you with its dancing. Not the first to do so in hopes of getting preferential treatment from you, as only your ‘favorites’ got selected to leave the containment sector.
“Hello there!” you replied brightly, it nearly killed you inside to show these creatures anything but cold disdain, but needs must. “Are you having a good time here fluffy?”
“Fwuffy wonely” it said in response, curling its tail by its side. “Dere not many fwuffies weft here to pway wit. Wan’ go where oder fwuffies went.”
Interesting response, you thought to yourself with glee. The neon little rat was ready for the process, just like the twelve others before her. You always waited until they started to grow restless from their confinement here before utilizing them for your experiments. Indeed, subject twelve was starting to miss his mother before you finally selected him, but that was over a week ago.
“Well, I think you are in luck! Because I think you are finally ready!” You say to the now ecstatic fluffy.
“Fwuffy weady! Yaaaaay!”
To be continued…
By Tempname

Precision, to some is merely a word for accuracy or exactness. For you, it is life and death. Well, not necessarily your life, but that is merely semantics. Before the Fluffies came about you wasted your life trying to find a purpose that resonated with you. Finding that purpose in a vast world is difficult to say the least. Looking back to all those wasted years you almost cry, but waste is something you do not tolerate. Some people fill their days with reading, others with video games or some other manner of frivolity, but not you. The answer to your life’s question was right in front of you, and by God you were going to be the best at it. You called it the refinement process, but what were you refining exactly? That word implies there is a good or service you are working with. But what you were doing was more than that. A primal purpose that was older than humanity itself, the art of suffering!
A tired, hacking cough brings you back to the present as you refocus upon your surroundings. In front of you is a clear work bench, brightly lit from above and to the sides for optimal illumination, and what you are viewing, is a fluffy. The distinction is important, for if you did not already know what the poor lump of meat in front of you was, then no reasonable person would ever think the faceless, stumpy, oozing abomination was once a brightly colored ball of happiness. You lift a hand and prod at the creature delicately, causing a cacophony of pain to erupt from its now gaping maw.
“SCREEEEeeeee,”
The pain filled cry quickly died down, to your slight frustration. The bloodshot and slightly dehydrated eyes look at you with clear desperation, but you ignore them with cold disregard. You mark the time, 5.52 seconds. Quite impressive considering the lengths you have taken to desecrate this creature’s body and soul. But you are not satisfied yet. You grab a clear spray bottle off the tray behind you clearly marked with a hazard symbol for corrosive liquids. Deftly removing the top of the bottle, you grab a syringe and a needle of your own making. Not the largest needle but that wasn’t the point. The needle was engineered to go in and out causing as much pain as possible, with serrated edges that allowed for the liquid being injected to run along the edges and distribute evenly when entering the flesh of its unfortunate victim. You fill the syringe approximately a quarter of the way full before replacing the bottle to its proper place, sealing it behind a fume hood and double checking the lid to ensure any vapors would not escape. The chemical was more than dangerous enough to warrant such procedure, as it was a combination of a steroid, acid, and sensation enhancing drug to maximize any pain felt. The amount you had within the syringe was enough to kill easily a hundred fluffies, but as long as you allowed it to run its course within the subject in front of you and not spill a drop, it would not be dangerous to anyone else. Your turn your head slightly and speak.
“Note: Subject 12 has diminishing returns to external stimuli. Maximum cry extended by .83 seconds from previous case. Moving on to subject 13 after final disposal.” You say quickly into the microphone to your right while looking into the camera some ways behind. You would splice the audio and video together later, but for now you had a test subject to deal with.
“I suppose you think your ordeal is over now?” You say to the red mass pinned to the table.
“Hheergh” The fluffy opened its mouth to respond, no doubt with some variation of ‘wan die’ or ‘why munstah gib hurties?’ but cutting out the tongues became routine after you discovered that the only response you really needed to hear from these creatures was agony or silence. After all, they don’t need to speak to convey their suffering now do they?
“Well you are half right you bad, bad fluffy” you say with quiet disdain. “This,” you said while gesturing to the syringe “is going to kill you. Slowly.” And with those fond words of farewell you pricked the fluffy in its fat belly, emptying its contents barely below its dermis. At first there was no reaction, but the fluffy quickly produced the most unearthly sound it could manage without a tongue. A faint bubbling could be seen under its fat belly, you could only imagine the damage being wrought within the child’s toy. But still it was not enough. You were confident that at least saved the best for last, as in, the fluffy was experiencing the most horrific pain it had ever felt at this moment, and that was saying something with all that it had been through. Perhaps it was a bit inefficient to watch every time you performed your own version of last rites on the fluffy, after all, you were seeking perfection here. But you allowed yourself this one guilty pleasure of being present for their last moments, their innards slowly bubbling away beneath swollen bellies. Blood rushed from the naked fluffy’s mouth, as forceful gasps of air only served to fill disintegrating lungs with enough air to continue the horrid screaming. Your only reaction, a small tilt to your lips to show your satisfaction. After about five and a half minutes the creature fell silent, lungs now completely gone, but that did not mean the fluffy was dead. No, you guessed he had about twenty-five or so seconds left of precious life within him as the deadly liquid worked its way to his heart to finally pump itself into his brain where he would finally die in complete mind numbing torment. When some spoke of the worst way a fluffy could die, none felt more confident than you when you said it. Indeed, with all your research you extended this particular subject’s death out for more than a week. It had taken hundreds of man hours, and easily twice the number of fluffies to find what worked and what didn’t for extending your particular brand of sadism. But your tender mercies were a labor of love.
After 22.93 seconds exactly, the fluffy was finally dead. You estimated exact cause of death to be a mixture of lack of oxygen to the brain combined with a lack of said brain. It had taken at least a hundred fluffies to work out how to do that. Keeping them alive for the chemical to do its work for as long as possible. Or how best to recombine the different compounds for maximum effect. But you didn’t mind the work, no in fact you lived for it.
A quick walk had you moving to the containment pens where fresh… subjects would be first introduced to you for refinement. An intermediary supplied you with all of the fluffies you would ever need. A wealthy benefactor whose only stipulation was to be kept in the loop for any discoveries or advancements you made in the subtle art of tormenting fluffies. The constant praise in your work made you confident they were not disappointed so far. What could you say, you were a pleaser. As you walked through the door you were immediately assailed with visions of bright colors and happy, chirping fluffies. Absolutely disgusting, but necessary, for only a being that had at one time known happiness could then know the greatest of suffering.
“Hewwo mummeh! Fwuffy so happy see yoo!” a bright orange fluffy mare waddled right up to you after you walked through the fluffy-proof gate – an approximately 3 foot high barrier painted brown to discourage touching – and sat on its ass, doing its best to impress you with its dancing. Not the first to do so in hopes of getting preferential treatment from you, as only your ‘favorites’ got selected to leave the containment sector.
“Hello there!” you replied brightly, it nearly killed you inside to show these creatures anything but cold disdain, but needs must. “Are you having a good time here fluffy?”
“Fwuffy wonely” it said in response, curling its tail by its side. “Dere not many fwuffies weft here to pway wit. Wan’ go where oder fwuffies went.”
Interesting response, you thought to yourself with glee. The neon little rat was ready for the process, just like the twelve others before her. You always waited until they started to grow restless from their confinement here before utilizing them for your experiments. Indeed, subject twelve was starting to miss his mother before you finally selected him, but that was over a week ago.
“Well, I think you are in luck! Because I think you are finally ready!” You say to the now ecstatic fluffy.
“Fwuffy weady! Yaaaaay!”
To be continued…
By Tempname